Why do we write?
We pour our hearts and souls
onto paper-flowers
for no one to read.

Make sticky, saturated imagery
about a sweet summer song.
And wish
that the words
will make the flora and fauna
of the concrete wall
that is our life,
grow.

Or to bask in them
as glorious sunlight,
and lap them up
like sweet nectar
for the soul.

The Artist
hangs his work proudly,
on the wall.

The Poet
hides his,
in the top draw of his desk.
Underneath old essays
and postcards for places
he yearns to visit.
Does this make them any less,
beautiful?

To take words,
and arrange them pleasingly,
on the page.
After all,
they are for no one,

just me.

no one cares
no one can see
the inner demons
that torture me
i must bleed
i cut a hole
bleed out
bleed out my soul
i must die
i need to disappear
in my wake
there will be no despair

Sometimes I like to get lost in the garden of my past
Bask beneath the moon of yesteryear,
lapping up her silvery rays of reminiscing.
I look around at the orchard of my recollection,
each tree ripe with the fruit of my memories.
This garden is my sanctuary.
This garden is my solace.
But sometimes this garden is my prison.
Sometimes the fruit is rotten and the trees are bare.
Sometimes the fields are barren and the fog blankets all celestial bodies.
Then it is darkness and numbness, not even the soft grass that caressed my infant feet can be felt.
It is a place of solitude, of serenity, and of  sorrow.
For it is here that I bury my forgotten dreams beneath the trees of fruition.
It is mine to tend and nurture.
As it is my only true possession.

Oh God,
This city,
Where we used to walk,
Where I heard you sing,
Where We danced,
Kissed,
Held hands,
Embraced.
All these memories in a shadow realm of the past.
A past swaddled in self-doubt and resentment.
Love me again. If you ever did.
You did not, You trailed me along as an embellishment to your carriage of aesthetics
How I begged you to love me
To see my soul
My little soul
Swimming in its little glass bell jar
So isolated and parched for love.


This city
This haunted city
Stirring with memories of our laughter
Of your story
Of my observance.

This city
Haunting me
Taunting me
With a rose tinted
Projection of my past actions

But this city
Took me into her bowels
And flooded my clear, sweet mind with rancid, spewing clouds
That flooded my soul’s windows
With tears of lamentation
For a life
Never lead
For a life
That was robbed
And then stabbed and left to bleed

Oh this city
This empty city
Filled with hollow facades and international portholes.
Warm bodies leaving a pleasant atmosphere into an abyss of staged streets

This city in which the last breath of us was drawn
In which I chased you
Lost in your trail of your French girls and unrequited love
I consumed your leftover affections
With the knowledge of never having your heart
But to only bear witness to your thoughts
Your lovely thoughts
Lined with silver.

Here in this city
Where your divine thoughts ascended to the heavens
Too brilliant and bright to me, earthbound
We built beautiful conversations together
That will echo in my mind

Never leaving my bell jar


Oh this city
How I could roam her streets in my mind
Each providing a memory
Not just of you
But of my always empty heart

This city
Will smoulder
Betwixt the two blades of the coast
And the soil
Home to the little cold wooden boxes
Forever be out of my reach

In this city
My own city
I shall bury my memories
Write them an elegy
And find another

A new city
Where the streets are cobbled
And the walkers are clad in woollen coats
Where the buildings speak a different language
And her streets are empty
Empty of memories
A city where I can leave you behind
And write a new love story
For myself only.

my feet still,
incessantly gliding
through the memories of others
a forged collective consciousness
“he understood” my heart sung
about the brightness, the motion, the impression.


the snapshot of the tête-à-tête
of everyone’s personal Matinée
a wistful stare down a water glass, the motion and destruction of ballet
flash of new technology
an advent of photography
light’s dance over a bale of hay
on a cold, sparkly winter’s day
a stark, gaze of a *** Olympic
cold, unromantic and simplistic
depiction of the human eye which would take flight
and end up landing in a Starry Night.